


Nothing to see here, nothing at all...

by Mohini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - No Monsters, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Stanford, character death referenced off stage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He must think I'm blind. Either that or utterly stupid. But we keep playing the game. Nothing to see here folks, nothing at all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing to see here, nothing at all...

Sometimes I wonder if he thinks I am an idiot. I mean, really, the guy has near constant bruises and injuries that he can’t seem to quite explain. He flinches when you move too quickly near him, and a slamming door is never, ever a good experience with him around. When I ask him about the bruises, he always has an excuse, but they are getting flimsier. Last week he attempted to tell me the frankly obvious handprint around his neck was from a falling showerhead. A showerhead. Seriously. I may be a little scatterbrained, but surely he didn’t expect me to buy that one. 

Now I’m watching him as he sleeps, and he hasn’t stopped moving in hours. It’s no wonder the circles under his eyes are getting steadily deeper. He flinches and whimpers and tenses up, mumbling apologies in his sleep. A part of me wants to wake him, to force him to talk about this, to fucking tell me what the hell is happening. The rest of me doesn’t want to know. Knowing would make it real. Would prove that I’ve suspected correctly for months now, that I’ve not done a damn thing to help him, to save him, and I’m not sure I can handle that.

He gasps and lurches upright, breathing in gulps before he’s on his feet and running for the bathroom. I follow his as far as the door, calling inside to ask if he needs anything. I can hear him being sick, and desperately want to go and wrap my arms around him, to somehow make this better. He eventually calls back that he’s alright, that something he ate must not have agreed with him. I hear the water running, and when he emerges he’s pale and his hands are shaking. He walks past me back to the bed, curling up on his side and looking much more like a little child than the powerfully built man he is. I sit beside him, keeping carefully to my side of the bed and wait for him to go back to sleep. 

His shoulders are shaking now, and I know he’s crying. I want to hold him, to bring him in close and tell him it’s going to be alright. I want to tell him he’s safe here, that I’ve got him and it’s alright. I know I can’t. He’s too proud, much too proud, to ever forgive that kindness. No “chick flick moments” in his world, thank you very much. He doesn’t cry, and if he does, well, it’s between him and the darkness of this room, certainly not for me to interfere with, no matter how much I want to. There is a stifled sob and I can see him jamming the knuckles of a fist against his mouth and biting down. I know better, I know I’m absolutely not supposed to hold him, but I can’t stop myself before I am wrapping my arms around his shoulders, curling up behind him and taking that poor fist out of his mouth before his teeth do some damage. 

I half expect to get punched for my troubles, but he stiffens for the briefest of moments and then rolls over, burying his head against my shirt and letting out quite possibly the most disturbing wail I’ve ever heard from a human being. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure there is anything to say. He stays there a long while, his tears soaking into my shirt and his hands digging into my shoulders. It’s like he doesn’t even know how to cry, screaming against me and sobbing out his breaths. By the time he quiets, he’s limp against me, all the fight gone from his body. I still don’t know what to say, so I rub circles on his back, keeping one arm wrapped around his waist so he knows I’ve got him. He’s gone to sleep, completely wiped out from his breakdown, when I hear a soft sound from the doorway. Sam’s watching us, his enormous frame taking up most of the space in the doorway. 

“How long have you been here?” I ask him, and he shrugs.

“Long enough. Too long. One of those. Gabe called me when he showed up. Said something wasn’t right with him. So here I am,” he tells me. He looks both young and ancient in that moment. If the neverending marks and bruises on Dean’s body are anything to go on, he’s been witness to more than anyone should in a lifetime. “I got my acceptance letter today,” he says, his voice too quiet. 

“So you’re going?”

“Full scholarship plus room and board. I talked to him about it. He told me I have to go, that he will haul my ass there himself if I don’t. Just, well, I don’t know if I can leave him here. Dad’s getting worse, and he’s going to fucking seriously hurt him eventually.”

“You’ve a year yet of high school?”

“Yeah. I’ll be finished next May. Stanford starts in August that year. Early acceptance, since he made me fill out the application as soon as I hit the start of this year.”

“Maybe you don’t have to leave him?” I mused. I know Dean won’t leave this town without his brother. But maybe I can convince him to leave with him instead. 

“M’not deaf,” Dean mutters from his position half buried in the pillow.

“Then sit up and join us, Princess Aurora,” Sam snarks.

“Like I want to discuss this with either of you,” Dean replies, but his voice isn’t quite steady enough to be convincing.

“Mmhmm,” Sam says, putting one large hand against Dean’s side and running it along the ribs there. “Want me to set that for you?”

Dean nods, and I have to look away as Sam manipulates the broken rib back into position. Dean doesn’t make a sound, and it’s entirely too telling of how many times this has happened in the past. I can hear Sam’s voice, softer and more gentle than I’ve ever heard him, and when I look back at them he’s running a hand up and down Dean’s shoulder, rubbing at the joint and coaching him quietly through stretching it out. There’s a horrible cracking sound when he grabs Dean’s upper arm and wrenches it backwards. Dean grunts but otherwise shows no reaction and then Sam is supporting his weight as he sags against him. “I’ve got you, it’s alright. I’ve got you,” Sam repeats, placing a hand against Dean’s neck and pressing down. Dean’s eyes flutter for a moment as he struggles to maintain consciousness and loses. 

“He’ll come around in a bit,” Sam says when he notices me staring. “It’s variation on a sleeper hold. Knocks him out for long enough for the shock from setting things to wear off. He doesn’t like to take pills. This works well enough.”

Sam is right, and within a few minutes Dean is awake again, though it’s more than a little disturbing to watch him as his little brother continues to hold up most of his weight. “You look like hell, Dean,” Sam tells him. Dean just shrugs.

“I’m serious. He’s going to do actual damage eventually and you know it.”

“He’s not home as much these days,” Dean counters. 

“Yeah, and when he is, he’s ten times as much of an asshole. I’m sick of it, Dean. I’m tired of pretending I can’t hear him knocking the shit out of you. I’m tired of putting you back together. I’m so fucking tired of watching you take it and go back for more. I can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Not much we can do until you’re ready to head for California,” Dean counters. He’s still practically in Sam’s lap, has made no move to actually sit up. I’m beginning to wonder if he even can. 

“I’m old enough to file for emancipation. I looked it up. I can get Jessica’s dad to draw up the papers for me. Hell, get Dad drunk enough and he’ll probably sign ‘em without reading through it.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll pick a fight and let him knock me around enough to leave a few good marks and report his ass for abuse. You’re legal, I won’t have to go in the system. Either way, it’s time this ends, Dean. I’m done.”

Dean nods, and Sam runs a hand through his brother’s hair. It should be disturbing, seeing them like this, but somehow it manages to still be innocent comfort. I watch as Sam guides Dean into lying back down in the bed, as he pulls covers up over him and keeps one of his own arms under him as he soothes him into sleep, singing a song I vaguely recognize from my own mother’s Beatles albums. 

Once Dean is out again, Sam pulls his arm out from under him and slips out of the bed. He motions for me to take his place, and I curl up around Dean, pressing his back against my chest and holding one of his hands in mine. 

“I’ll be in Gabe’s room,” Sam tells me. “If he wakes again, come get me.”

Dean sleeps through until morning, and I wake to Sam’s voice as he offers his brother painkillers and a glass of water. I don’t want to know where the kid got opiates. I’m just glad Dean won’t be hurting, at least for a little while. Sam leaves once he’s satisfied that Dean’s swallowed the tablets.

“So, guess I owe you a couple dozen explanations,” Dean grumbles.

“Not really,” I say softly. “I was more in Sam’s position than yours, but I think I might understand more than you think.”

When we were kids, mom was married to an utter and complete asshole by the name of Zachariah. He knocked the shit out of all of us, mom included, for nearly any infraction. My older brother, Luc, usually stepped in when he started knocking me or Gabe around, but that didn’t mean we were always spared. Zachariah disappeared one night, and Michael, the eldest of us, came home that night with blood on his hands. No one asked questions. I remember listening through the bathroom door as Luc cleaned Michael up, heard as they agreed that it would never, ever be spoken of again. Two years later, Michael’s in the Middle East fighting a war no one really believes in anymore and Luc is in New York doing god only knows what. 

“Cas? You with me, man?” he asks me. I shake my head, trying to clear the memories from the forefront. This is definitely not the time to let him in on any of that. Zachariah may be long gone, but the lessons I learned aren’t going anywhere. You don’t air the family secrets. Ever. Come to think about it, that’s probably most of the problem here. Dean and I are operating on the same rules, and no one’s willing to say anything about what we both know full well is going on behind the curtain.

“I’m good,” I tell him. I don’t have anything else of any use to say. He clearly doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go.


End file.
